5 Times Eames Was Sure Arthur Was Secretly a Cat (& 1 Time He Wasn't)
by deinvati
Summary: Eames had always noticed Arthur's cat-like tendencies, ever since the first job they'd worked together. His stupid brain was fascinated with Arthur, and he was determined to get to the bottom of it. A/E slash. (Arthur's not a cat, Eames is just oblivious.)


5 Times Eames Was Pretty Sure Arthur Was Secretly a Cat (+ 1 Time He Was Positive He Wasn't)

 **1\. Caterwauling**

Arthur had pointedly ignored Eames' bids for attention all morning, and Eames hated that. He sighed, stretched obnoxiously, and snickered at his screen before looking up in Arthur's direction, but Arthur's profile stared resolutely at his laptop. He needed a different tactic.

"Arthur," he called, leaning back in his chair, "you know how there are transgender people?"

"Yes," Arthur clipped, still staring at his computer, only now his brow was furrowed. He was scrolling a lot.

"You know, how someone feels they were born into the wrong body."

Arthur looked up then, confusion written on his face. "I know what it means, Eames. The mark isn't transgender."

"Just hear me out," Eames placated, and _there_ was Arthur's scowl. "What if, instead of feeling born the wrong gender, you felt born the wrong species."

There was a heavy pause, and now Eames had the attention of their architect, extractor, and chemist too.

"What," Arthur said flatly.

"I watched a documentary… well, I watched part of a documentary about this man who thought he should have been born a cat. And he'd been through all these expensive-looking surgeries to give himself whiskers and the like."

Arthur paused, his frown firmly in place, and his brain obviously whirring.

"Mr. Eames," he finally said, "if you feel you are a cat trapped in a man's body, I suggest some therapy."

"Oh, not me, darling," Eames smiled. "Just making conversation."

"Mm hmm," Arthur grunted. "Does that mean you have the forge ready?"

Eames grinned, and they went back to work. Arthur ignored him the rest of the day, but he'd planted the idea, and he was fairly sure Arthur had been glaring at him when he wasn't looking. Now, he just needed to wait.

Eames had always noticed Arthur's cat-like tendencies, ever since the first job they'd worked together. It had been a Cobb Job—and all that that implied—but he'd been introduced to the man who would eventually be known as the Best Point in the Business. Eames' first thought was that he was bloody gorgeous. His second was that he was a prudish bag of dicks.

"And this is Arthur, our Point," the extractor had introduced him. Cobb had still been an architect at the time, and he hadn't even been there to water down Eames' startlingly strong reaction to the slim, dark-haired man. Arthur hit him like a tonne of bricks. Eames had dialled up his North accent as he'd shaken his hand, grinning his "charming bloke, good for a good time" grin the whole time.

"Hello, love," he'd cooed, and slid his hand into Arthur's before gripping it with authority.

Except Arthur had scowled. "Don't call me that, I hate pet names. It's Arthur."

Eames had kept smiling. "My apologies darling, won't happen again. So, what have we got so far?"

Arthur had barreled ahead with steam roller competence and they talked the rest of the day while somehow managing to not talk at all. Then, when Eames had been thinking about calling it a night and wondering just how long Arthur expected everyone to stay, Arthur grabbed his jacket.

"Oh!" Eames stood and stretched. "And where are you off to?"

"Karaoke bar," Arthur said. "I need to get laid."

Eames may have expected a lot of things, but that was not one of them. He probably looked like a fish for about five seconds before his brain kicked back on.

"Really, now!" he said, hurrying to get to his own coat. "Well, why don't we all go! Team bonding night! Who would turn down karaoke on a Monday?"

Arthur eyed him as he packed up his work. "It's a gay bar, Eames," he finally said.

Jack fucking pot. He grinned. "Well they have to let me in, I'm a card-carrying member. And I think between the two of us we can sneak the others in under our coats."

Arthur scowled and checked his watch. "Fine, I don't care. Stay out of my way when we get there."

"But of course," Eames said, hurrying to keep up.

The entire team thought it sounded fun, gay bar and all, even Dom came for a single beer. Arthur, as promised, was on the prowl, almost aggressively. He sat slightly apart from their group, surveying the crowd of patrons like he was casing the joint. He had exactly two and a half beers—if Bud Light could be considered beer—before he stood and put his name into the karaoke rotation.

It was fairly quiet for a bar. Their chemist may have already had more than she should have as she laughed and talked to a bloke from the next table who was looking at her with an amused and indulgent smile on his face. He was a good-looking guy; their chemist had excellent taste. Short, blond hair, probably played American football in school, cocky and full of muscles, and very, very gay. Not that their chemist had processed that yet.

Eames was just about to lean over to say something along those lines to Arthur when the DJ announced Arthur's name. He stood, calm and confident, and walked to the stage. An atomic bomb could have gone off and Eames' eyes would still have been transfixed to the figure taking the microphone and professionally wrapping the cord around his hand.

Eames had zero expectations because his frame of reference was so out of whack as to be nonexistent. However, he was still surprised when Arthur started belting out Elton John. Very loudly. And very off-key. Eames stared, fascinated, as Arthur, oozing confidence, sauntered around with a lack of self-consciousness that two watery beers don't give anyone. Especially not with that singing voice. Or lack thereof, in this case. It was oddly endearing and yet horrifyingly impossible to look away, like a train full of teddy bears on a collision course. In fact, Eames was aware his mouth was hanging open.

At the end of the song, Arthur tossed the mic to the chagrined DJ and bounced off the stage. Right over to the blond jock.

Then he leant down and whispered something in his ear that made the other man's eyes light up. Arthur stood and waited while he gathered his jacket and said goodbye to his friends. Then Arthur led him out of the bar with a hand on the small of his back. He didn't even glance back at their table where Eames was still gaping after him.

 **2\. That Eating Thing**

So the caterwauling had been effective, both on the jock and in that Eames was still thinking about it several months later when he came back with the team's lunches. He'd been counting the ways Arthur might actually be a cat because he'd had to stop at three different places to acquire everything Arthur deemed worthy of eating, and what human being was that finicky about food? The burger place the rest of the team had wanted didn't carry salads, and the salad place Arthur liked didn't carry coffee. He tried not to be annoyed. Arthur was allowed to like what he liked, and it's not like it was _that_ far out of the way.

He had seen Arthur eat dozens of times throughout their acquaintance. Eames probably spent the least amount of time with the rest of the team, he did a lot of recon and field work, but when he was there, he brought lunch. And he could watch Arthur eat lunch all day.

Literally.

Arthur always got a salad, usually a Cobb salad, which Eames teased him about exactly once, and then he proceeded to pick at it all damn afternoon. He would take a bite every ten minutes, or whenever he remembered, one infuriating piece at a time. It was maddening.

Eames loved the little idiosyncrasies that made each person what they were, it was a habit of forging. And one of his favourite things to do was people-watching, making up little stories about why they did what they did. So what made Arthur eat this way? Did he have some strange childhood experience where he'd eaten too fast and thrown up, and now he didn't risk it? Was it a vanity thing? Did he even realise he was doing it?

He took so long to eat, Eames made a point not to get him anything that would spoil. Arthur didn't need to know that the Cobb salad came with an odd mayonnaise and noodle… thing. Eames had, more than once, replaced the previous meal with a fresh one, because Arthur hadn't finished it by the time it was time to eat again.

But not today. Eames had a plan. He had been plotting this since the last time they'd worked together. His stupid brain was _fascinated_ with Arthur and his… cattiness, for lack of a better term, and it was ridiculous. It was far past time to get to the bottom of it, he was a grown man with plenty of outlets, he didn't need to fixate on someone who reminded him fascinatingly of a cat, and who was also, occasionally, a complete asshole. Which, if he thought about it, was also cat-like. Anyway, his plan was simple and consisted of two parts. Part One: he would investigate/resolve the quirks Arthur exhibited which his resting brain would get stuck on, and then Part Two: he would get over it/move the fuck on.

The first quirk was this eating thing. Eames had brought him a salad because he knew how Arthur appreciated the consistency. But he was determined to see how Arthur ate when he was forced into a situation where his food was expected to be consumed in one sitting. He would take Arthur to a restaurant, through any means necessary, and make the Arthur stuck in his head overlay an actual person who ate normally. He was sort of enthralled by the thought though. What if Arthur _didn't_ eat normally? Would he explode if he ate the whole meal at once? Would he order a salad everywhere he went? Did he only eat salad? Would he lick his hands and then use them to wash his face at the end of the meal? No, that was just silly.

Fucking… see? This was the shite he was talking about. For some reason, Arthur just got stuck in there, on a loop, and Eames just replays "Arthur" for about six hours at a go. It was infuriating, and he had work to do.

"So! Arthur," Eames started as he dropped off the salad at his desk. "I thought we should get dinner tonight."

Arthur paused and raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

Ok, so not the best response he could have hoped for.

"Why?" Eames asked, aghast. "Like eating isn't something you were planning on doing anyway? Do you have something against eating, Arthur?" He was only half kidding.

Arthur relaxed slightly. "Oh, so this is a casual thing."

"As casual as you want, darling," Eames replied, his relief making him flippant.

"Who else is coming?"

"Uh." Eames hadn't really planned on anyone else coming, truth be told, but his heart wasn't set on this being a date. He just wanted to know a few more details about Arthur. For science. "I hadn't asked anyone else yet. I started with you, love."

Arthur frowned at the name, but nodded, then went back to his computer. So. Eames counted that as a yes, and as a win. Now he had to convince everyone else that the dinner invite was perfunctory only and they should politely decline. In the end, only their architect, Simi, didn't get the hint, and the three of them went to the Italian place down the block after work.

Eames took the chair opposite Arthur, so he could have the best spot for observing the food quirk he came here to study. The waiter came for their order, and Arthur not only forwent the salad but ordered the _salmon_ instead. Eames grinned until their food arrived, listening to Simi and Arthur debate the parts of the job they could discuss in public.

He kept mostly silent, listening to the two of them bicker back and forth, stepping in only when he could moderate. Because there was a problem. Arthur was talking, which meant he wasn't eating. He was sitting there, his fork hovering over his food, as he explained how the maze in the library wasn't going to work if he left all the shelves as wire racks instead of solid wood.

He let out a breath as Arthur finally loaded his fork, but then as he bent forward, holding his tie against his shirt with one hand, Simi said, "But the library by his house has wire racks." And Arthur paused with his fork halfway to his mouth and the whole thing started all over again.

Eames fought his way through his eggplant parmesan, trying not to glare into his plate, and kept himself from throwing his hands up when, at the end of the meal, Arthur stopped the waiter to ask for a to-go box.

 **3\. Cat Napping in the Sun**

So quirk number one was inconclusive. He didn't need to be a scientist to know one experiment did not a conclusion make. He would need to try again. But Arthur was sure to get suspicious if he asked him out again so soon, so he focused on quirk number two: patches of sun and cat naps.

Eames had noticed Arthur's tendency to gravitate towards the sofa or chair closest to where the sunlight was filtering in through whatever dirty window their setup allowed. Then, Eames discovered, from time to time he would catch a few z's while the rest of the team was out. It wasn't probably common knowledge about the point man, and while he was sure Arthur would only roll his eyes if you brought it up, in all likelihood he didn't want it spread around.

Which was why the first time Eames had seen it, he'd backed quietly out of the room and closed the door behind him. He would not talk about how he'd stared in quiet shock for a few moments first and then afterwards thrown away the coffee he'd brought from that place Arthur liked. He'd only noticed Arthur looked a bit tired earlier and obviously he'd been right. And good, healthy, _normal_ sleep was much better for him than coffee. So it was just as well.

The only other time he'd seen it he would have slipped away again, but Üwe, their chemist, had been right behind him talking loudly on his mobile while they climbed the stairs. He had barreled into the back of Eames when he stopped, giving him an odd look and stepping around him. By that time, Arthur had risen, adjusted his waistcoat, and looked none the worse for having been asleep moments before.

So this time when he stumbled upon Arthur napping in the sun, he was caught off guard. He didn't know anyone was in the warehouse at all, and he wasn't being particularly quiet until he came upon the slight frame reclining on the sofa in the corner. Sure enough, Arthur lay on his side and the stripe of sunlight fell directly across his face and chest, something that would have kept Eames awake but didn't seem to bother Arthur in the least.

Eames slowed, then stopped as he considered the prone form. Arthur hadn't heard him approach, which was odd. He must have been more tired than usual. And this was an excellent opportunity for Eames to observe this quirk without Arthur noticing. He glanced at the edge of sunbeam as it slanted across Arthur's sharp cheekbone, directly above where he knew his dimple lay dormant. He was wearing a different waistcoat than yesterday, it twisted to one side as his arms crossed, fingers tucked in under them. His breath exhaled across his parted lips, which were fuller when he was asleep and not pressing them together in frustration with strikeEames/strike everyone.

Eames wondered how the breath from those lips would feel over his own, and how the slide of his thumb right along the edge of the sunbeam would trace the smooth combination of warm and cool skin all the way to Arthur's jaw line. If the sofa was wider, like a bed, Eames would crawl onto it next to him and lay down so he could see Arthur's face. Their breaths would mingle, and he'd tangle their fingers together too, so he'd know the minute Arthur moved, and then he'd drift asleep along with him.

Bloody hell. Eames realised with a jolt the line his thoughts had taken. He'd just been fantasising about napping with the man, for fuck's sake. How had that started?

He took a careful step forward, not sure if he was doing it to get a better look or because he was finally admitting the way he was so inexplicably drawn to Arthur. Then Arthur himself, without opening an eye, reached for the gun at his back.

He drew it, pointed it at Eames' face, and then cracked an eye. Eames raised his hands and an eyebrow and the sliver of open eye rolled. Arthur slid the safety back on, which Eames was profoundly grateful for, and put the gun back.

"What's going on?" he growled, his voice scratchy from sleep the way it wasn't that day with Üwe.

"Nothing," Eames blurted. "Well, recon, I mean. The mark holed up at the office again, and my intern paperwork isn't gonna go through until Monday."

"Mmm," Arthur hummed, sitting up. He rose, stretched his arms above his head, and disappeared down the hallway, and Eames forced out a breath that didn't relieve the tightness in his chest.

 **4\. Pet Me (But Only When, and Where, and For How Long I Say)**

Eames sank down in the patch of sun Arthur vacated, his knees feeling a tad shaky. He had missed this. How had he missed it? He was so proud of his ability to read people, and he couldn't even figure out himself. He might be a bit smitten with Arthur. Maybe more than a bit. And he hadn't even noticed.

Arthur came back, wiping his hands with a paper towel and tossing it in the bin as he passed. He grabbed a folder from his desk and headed back towards Eames. Back towards the sofa anyway. Eames should get up. Arthur had been here first, and he had work to do anyway. He could get in a round on the PASIV if Arthur was keeping guard. He should—

Arthur settled next to him, his thigh pressed against Eames'. The beam of light spilt over Eames' lap, but only touched the knee of Arthur's expensive trousers. Eames wondered what they'd feel like between his fingers.

He wasn't staring. Eames' gaze jumped guiltily up to Arthur's eyes, but he was only settling into the file.

"What's that?" Eames asked because otherwise, Arthur would ask what he was still doing here.

"Boring stuff," Arthur muttered, turning a page. He looked up when the silence stretched and Eames didn't reply. "The mark's job history," he explained even though Eames hadn't asked. "I was checking his employee files from all his prior jobs to see if there were any connections to the oil industry before his switch to TransContinuum."

Eames wasn't sure what to say to that because he'd been noticing Arthur's eyelashes and realising it wasn't the first time he'd noticed Arthur's eyelashes. He settled on, "Ah."

Arthur gave him an odd look, although surely it was he that was being odd, and continued, "I'm not finding anything, but that's most of what I do. Check stuff that 99% of the time I don't need to check so that 1% of the time when I find out I should have checked it, it's not as big of a deal. Hopefully."

Eames swallowed and nodded. "I took your seat," he said, too abrupt, and now it would seem like he wasn't listening, and why was his voice so low?

Arthur shrugged and turned away and Eames' heart sank for a moment until he realised what Arthur was doing. He was scooting down and then pivoting to bring his feet on the sofa beside him. Then he lay down again, but this time with his head in Eames' lap.

Eames was having trouble breathing and also his hand was sort of floating between them because he didn't know what to do with it. Arthur wasn't looking at him, just reading the file he'd brought with him, but he must have noticed the floating hand problem because how could he not? He took Eames' hand and placed it on the top of his own head, then went back to reading. The sunlight spilt over his folder and his face, the dust motes danced between them.

God. His hair was surprisingly soft, even though Eames could smell the product in it, he couldn't help but wiggle his fingers in the strands a bit, just because he could. Arthur didn't react, so Eames curled his fingers, brushing his scalp, and he wanted to bury his nose in the scent that was so very Arthur, but he hadn't realised was something he'd already associated with him.

He drew the strands between his fingers, watching the way they curled around his hand and he heard a tiny contented sigh. Eames blinked, but Arthur's face gave nothing away. Experimentally, he drew his fingers through the strands again and Arthur nudged up into his hand. With a grin, Eames kept petting Arthur's hair, adding in a small amount of pressure to his fingers and savouring the way Arthur's breaths through his nose were getting deeper and longer and how his folder was drooping.

Eames wanted to say something, wanted to hear Arthur's voice rumble from his lap, wanted to tease him because he didn't know what else to do, but he couldn't break the spell that was keeping Arthur here. He checked to see if Arthur had fallen back asleep. His eyelids were closed, but Eames knew better than to assume that meant he was out. His gaze drifted to Arthur's waistcoat, the heavy brocade covered in a subtle… was that a monochrome paisley pattern?

Eames drew a soft finger over the material somehow needing to feel it, to make it real, but, quick as a flash, Arthur's hand batted it away. He bit his lip to keep the smile from growing there and tried to go back to petting Arthur's hair, but Arthur batted that away too. Eames really did smile then and laced his hands behind his head. He leant back into the sofa, staring at the water stained ceiling overhead and decided he had nowhere to be right now. If Arthur needed a pillow who was he to argue? He listened to the soft sound of Arthur's breaths, the rhythmic, slow pace, and found his own breath matching them. He could still smell whatever Arthur used in his hair, which he would probably always be able to detect from now on, and he closed his eyes to see if he could focus on identifying it. But before he knew it, he'd fallen asleep too.

 **5\. Extensive Bathing and Cat-like Reflexes**

When Eames woke, he wasn't alone, per se, because the rest of the team was in the warehouse, but Arthur was no longer in his lap. It may have been a bit more disappointing than he was willing to admit to himself at the moment.

He yawned and casually checked his watch because that's what you did when the most prominent people in dreamshare were there to catch you sleeping on the job, and that's when he felt the IV line taped to his wrist. No needle and the PASIV next to him was on but not running, but no one would be able to tell unless they sat down next to him.

He glanced toward Arthur, surprised at his thoughtfulness, but only glimpsed him as he spun back to his laptop. Arthur hunched over the keyboard, ignoring Eames as always, and Eames chewed his lip as he untaped the useless line.

He stood, rolling the line and turning off the machine and Simi came strolling over to him.

"Productive run?" he asked, half-grin in place and a notebook in his hand.

Eames returned his grin easily, keeping his gaze from flitting to Arthur only from years of practice. "Not sure. I'll keep you posted, yeah?"

Simi nodded and asked him to come give his opinion on the newest maze and he followed, wondering if Arthur had always lived in the back of his mind like this and he hadn't noticed, or if he only now admitted it was more than a curiosity that kept him there.

He got through the rest of the day, somehow, because it flew by and crawled at the same time. Arthur had been ignoring him more than usual, the prick, and Eames hadn't been able to catch his attention since he'd woken up. He didn't know what to do with that. He didn't know what to do with the hurricane in his chest either.

At the end of the day, he watched Arthur slide on his jacket and sling the messenger bag he carried over his shoulder. He wanted to tell him the bag made him look about ten years younger, except it would start a fight he didn't want right now. He wanted to ask him to dinner, but they'd eaten hunched over their desks a few hours before. He wanted to lean over him and leer and teasingly ask him back to his, but Arthur would roll his eyes and tell him they were literally staying at the same hotel. Normally that would be a reason to do it anyway, but now… now he meant it. And he didn't know how to convince Arthur this time he wasn't taking the piss. That this time an Arthurian eye roll at his advances might hurt more than he was comfortable with.

Eames blinked at himself and slid on his own jacket while Arthur locked up behind him.

"Ready, Mr. Eames?" Arthur asked, making eye contact with him for the first time in hours. Eames didn't trust himself to speak, just nodded and followed Arthur's lead. Then they trekked the mile to their hotel in companionable silence, their eyes on their shoes. And it should have been the same as yesterday. Maybe for Arthur, it was. But Eames was busy turning over the new information he'd gathered about Arthur and was unsettled by the amount it was revealing about himself more so than Arthur.

Distance. He needed distance to process what was happening. His carefully crafted shenanigans on this job, his silly plan for studying Arthur's quirks seemed laughable as he calculated how far and how fast he could run. He would wait until the end of the job. He could do that for Arthur. But he would be putting as much distance between them as possible in the meantime because he didn't want to know if Arthur was going out for karaoke night. He didn't want to know if he slept curled into a ball. He didn't want to know if he used his tongue for tiny kitten licks or purred if you stroked him just right. He didn't want to know any of that because the truth was that he wanted to know all of that.

So he would hold the door for Arthur to enter the hotel first, then he'd watch his back as he disappeared into the far bank of elevators. And then he'd let him go. He would find someone to get Arthur out of his system, he would find a job with semi-competent people, and he would get back to life as it had always been.

And Eames scanned the lobby as Arthur pressed the elevator call button, making sure they didn't have a tail and making an odd mental note of the way Arthur's suit jacket rode up his back a bit under the messenger bag strap. Then he shoved that thought as far out of his head as it could go and nodded to Arthur as he headed back out into the night.

He was going to get drunk. He was going to blow some money he hadn't earned yet at the craps tables, and he was going to find some blonde bimbo to balance on his knee while he did it. He _was_ going to. Except that when the cab dropped him at the casino, they refused to let him in because he didn't have his ID with him. Nevermind that he was on the wrong side of 30 and the one in his hotel room was fake anyway. The bouncer with the neck the size of his thigh glared at him until he went away.

So he grumbled his way back to his hotel room, jabbing the elevator button with enough force to make the concierge frown at him. Except that when he swiped his card key, nothing happened. Well, not nothing. It flashed red and refused to open. It did do that.

So he only kicked the door once before going back down to the front desk and giving the gal a tight smile, hoping she didn't remember him from the button jabbing incident earlier. No such luck.

"Miss, I hate to be a bother, but I did pay for this bloody key card, and it has really only the one job, which it was currently failing at completing. Could you maybe have a look?"

She returned his tight smile and tapped away at her computer for what seemed like far more time and clicks than it should have reasonably taken. Just as he was starting to feel the threads of his patience snap, she cleared her throat.

"Mr Abernathy, on behalf of the hotel, I'd like to apologise. It appears there's been a computer error and your room had been cancelled."

Eames rubbed his temples. "Well, that's just great—"

"And it was cleaned earlier this afternoon and anything remaining would have been tossed out," the woman reported evenly. "We are terribly sorry about that, and if you would give me a moment, I could just check and see if the garbage company has already been by or if maybe we could pull your things out of the dumpster."

"Are you fucking serious?" Eames gaped at her.

Her lips thinned at that, but she continued, "I'm afraid so. However, I will do everything I can to get you another room, even though we are currently booked solid. So if you'll give me another moment, I will call our other locations and sister companies to see if there are any other available rooms. It will just take a few minutes."

"You're booked solid. What about the room I just was kicked out of?"

She gave him a humourless smile. "The new occupant has already called down about someone trying to kick down his door."

Eames gritted his teeth. "You have no rooms available at all, that's what you're saying?"

"I'm sorry sir," she said, not looking sorry at all, "but it _is_ a home game this weekend, and there are several business conventions in town, and I am doing everything in my power to make this as pleasant as possible for you, sir."

"As _pleasant_ as possible!? Are you out of your bloody fucking mind? You're going to stand there and tell me—"

"Is everything alright?"

The voice cut through the angry chatter in his head and he spun to take in Arthur, hotel towel in his hand and grey t-shirt clinging to his still-damp torso while his swim trunks dripped down the dark hair on his legs. Eames swallowed and felt too warm. He had been about to make a scene. He could have been kicked out of the hotel, possibly had security called, maybe blown an alias over something as stupid as a hotel booking mix up. And, of course, Arthur had seen it.

"Mr. Abernathy here was just expressing his frustration over the way I'm attempting to resolve his concern," the concierge replied. "I'm sure everything will be fine, won't it, Mr. Abernathy?"

She had obviously taken one too many "handling the situation" classes and Eames' hackles were back up at the way she thought she could manipulate him, _him_ , the person who manipulated better than he _breathed_.

"Oh, I'm sure it will," Eames simpered at her. "Ms… Cierra here was just expressing her incompetence over the way she cancelled my hotel room and then threw away all my earthly possessions, including my ID, and then explained that there aren't any other available rooms in the entire city."

She stiffened at the use of her first name. "I can assure you, Mr. Abernathy, that I did no such thing. I had no part in today's events, and I am a professional, so if you cannot keep this conversation professional, I'm going to be forced to—"

"Professional!?" Eames sputtered, "I haven't said a single thing that I wouldn't say to my own mum, and you can take your 'professional' and shove it right up—"

"MR. ABERNATHY."

Arthur's voice was made of steel and Eames clenched down on the stream of profanities working their way up his throat.

"Maybe there's something I can do to help. Would you mind stepping over here and we can discuss it?"

Eames turned and looked at him again, his wet hair slicked against his scalp the way it was during the day, but now with added severity. His lips were pressed together, his scowl was in full force, and if Eames had been a regular Joe off the street, Arthur's offer to "help" would have been terrifying. As it was, he nodded and followed Arthur the few steps away and out of Cierra's hearing range.

"What in the actual fuck are you trying to do, Eames?" Arthur hissed at him while still managing to keep his face as neutral as he was probably capable of pulling off.

Eames' lips couldn't help but twitch now that it was just the two of them. "Did you know your sandals do that?"

The tension dissolved and the confusion was evident on Arthur's face. "My sandals? Do what?"

"Make that 'ffft… ffft… ffft…' sound when you walk." Eames grinned at him just to watch Arthur roll his eyes, which he did, but was obviously holding back.

"Jesus Christ, Eames. What are you doing? Seriously. You're going to get thrown out."

"Well," Eames said, crossing his arms. "As a matter of fact, they did cancel my room and then throw away everything I own on the 'game weekend during business convention season'. Bloody mess is what it is."

"For fuck's sake. Get a blanket and pillow and go sleep at the warehouse. We'll figure the rest out later."

"Smashing!" Eames crowed. "Do you have a blanket and pillow I might borrow? And perhaps a spare toothbrush?"

Arthur clenched his jaw and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Urgh. Fine. Fine, fine, I can't believe I'm doing this. You can stay with me."

"Oh." And Eames' witty bluster died on his tongue due to the acute myocardial infarction he was apparently having.

"But I am not good at sharing my space, Eames, so don't expect me to be, like, likeable or anything," Arthur glared, unaware of Eames' coronary malfunction. "This isn't Boyscout camp, or whatever the British equivalent of that is. We're not going to swap ghost stories and make s'mores."

"Oh, God in heaven, please tell me you were an actual Boy Scout," Eames breathed without thinking.

"Shut up," Arthur snapped. "Just… go stand over by the elevators while I fix this."

Eames did as he was told, hands in his pockets, and tried not to watch as Cierra smiled a real smile at Arthur, assuring him he didn't have to do that, and she really would contact the authorities if need be.

Arthur, curse him until the end of time, was charming and suave, gracing her with one of his dimple smiles, which she had _not_ earned, reassuring her and saying he'd call down for a few extra pillows if he decided to make Mr. Abernathy sleep in the hallway. And she giggled. Arthur smiled brazenly at her, and if Arthur was the kind of guy who was into women, he could have let Eames have the hotel room and gone home with her instead. Because Arthur was a force to be reckoned with when he wanted something, he had laser focus and impeccable timing. Eames, the master manipulator, couldn't help but be grudgingly impressed.

Well, so much for the space he was depending on to figure things out. He followed Arthur down the hall to his room, absurdly fond of the ffft… ffft… ffft… of Arthur's sandals on the carpet. His key card worked the first time, and Eames couldn't decide if he was disappointed or relieved when the open door revealed two full-size beds.

The door clicked shut behind them and Arthur moved to clear off one of the beds where his suitcase had been spread open.

Eames cleared his throat. "Arthur—"

"I'm going to take a shower," Arthur announced, cutting off the thank you speech Eames had been working out in the elevator.

"Uh," Eames stared but didn't even get to the "okay," before Arthur was behind the door.

There was a ten-second stillness and Eames was caught in the liminal space that was created by his absence.

Then the shower started, and Eames blushed. Then he immediately felt stupid for blushing. Ploughing a hand through his hair, he grabbed the remote and flipped the telly on, flopping on the recently cleared bed. So Arthur was showering. With only a wall between them. Big deal. He was perfectly capable of watching Property Brothers and not picturing Arthur naked. He could also probably watch any kind of game show and also not imagine suds running over thighs or water dripping down shoulder blades. The Food Network was a bad idea, just… no, but he could definitely find some kind of 24-hour news coverage that would take his mind off of loofahs scrubbing over abs, or maybe, possibly, a bit lower…

Fucking Anderson Cooper. He wasn't helping at all.

Eames turned off the telly with a sigh. How the hell long did a grown man really need in the shower? It had been at least two hours, maybe three. Well, extensive bathing routines did lend nicely to the possible cat theory he'd been working on. But there was no way a human man would need that much time to wash, not even if he rubbed every single muscle and smoothed his hands over each dip and plane of his skin, the water sliding over his body as it rinsed away the soap…

"Bloody buggering fuck," Eames cursed under his breath. He stood up, dropping the remote and pacing the small space in the room. This room had seemed a lot bigger when he'd first walked in. It had also been cooler and contained a lot more air. Eames loosened the top button on his shirt, stretching his neck and rolling his shoulders, which was when he noticed the toiletry bag sitting on the chair next to the bathroom door.

Maybe Arthur just forgot something in the bag so it was taking him longer? Maybe he needed… a special soap or something? What did he keep in there anyway that he didn't take it to the bathroom to begin with?

Eames sauntered over, and if it was already unzipped, sliding a finger in to widen the opening and peek inside wasn't really a violation, right?

What he saw was a small, flat canister of hair pomade. The secret to gorgeously styled and yet touchably soft hair which smelled and looked fantastic was just _sitting_ there. How could he not pick that up?

As soon as his fingers curled around the metal and lifted it free of the leather bag, the bathroom door opened and Eames spun around. He was _not_ going to look guilty, he was _not_ going to look guilty, he was _not_...

"Oh fuckin' hell," Eames muttered, the canister falling from his numbed fingers because Arthur was standing there, dewy and glistening, in the world's tiniest towel. It was tucked against his hip bones like it had been made for him and Eames was in bloody love with this man.

The pomade fell in slow motion, tumbling toward the floor, and Eames could see it falling, but god save him if he could get his muscles to do anything about it. He'd forgotten how they worked.

Arthur, though…

In a show of grace and reflexes that rivalled a gymnast, Arthur spun, stooped, and caught the canister in one fluid movement. He paused there in a half-crouch, his towel flashing an ivory thigh, and his eyes met Eames' before he rose to stand. Eames had never been more turned on in his life.

Arthur was going to say something. He licked his lips, staring at the hair styling product, and he would probably say something snarky, or funny, or cavalier, but god, that was the hottest thing Eames had ever seen.

"Arthur," he said, and his voice sounded strangled by his own desire.

Arthur looked up at him in surprise at the raw heat in Eames' tone. Eames had a pretty good idea what his face was saying at that moment, something about wanting to rip that towel off him and then tear him apart. And to his surprise, Arthur responded with a raised eyebrow and an answering smile. Dimple and all.

 **+1. All Man**

Eames wasn't sure which one of them moved first. He maintained later it was him because he wasn't the kind of man to trip at the finish line, but Arthur was the one who manoeuvred them to the bed.

Eames had to get his hands on everything. Just, everything. He must not have been the only one because Arthur was fighting with his buttons, and his belt, and his flies, and Eames wasn't helping at all because there was so much Arthur to touch. He had to put his hands on every inch of skin, he had to know this was real and Arthur was here and his and—

Eames pulled back abruptly, breaking the kiss and panting into the space between them.

"Eames?" Arthur asked, his voice hesitant and unsure for the first time Eames had known him.

He breathed in the scent of Arthur, everything at once making him dizzy. "The hallway. And before that the elevator, and the lobby."

Arthur's eyes softened with sudden understanding, but Eames continued. "Before that was the casino, and the lobby again, and we walked here together from the warehouse where I'd been…" Eames broke off and looked at Arthur with alarm. "...sleeping."

He backed up, then stood up, and Arthur's eyes were on him, and he was concerned, but god, what if all this... "Sorry, darling, I just need to—"

"It's alright," Arthur said, his voice low, but he knew. He didn't judge Eames for this.

Eames fumbled for the trousers he'd kicked out of seconds ago and pulled out his poker chip, rolling it over his knuckles with a sigh.

"Real?" Arthur asked.

Eames nodded and grinned at Arthur, the relief making him giddy. "Sorry, darling, I had to know this was real. It seemed too good to be true."

"Don't worry," Arthur said, and his voice was quiet, "I've dreamt of this too." He didn't quite meet Eames' eyes, but he leant forward and Eames was lost.

He kissed Arthur. He touched, and tasted, and stayed lost in this damnable, adorable man. His fingertips worshipped the hair on Arthur's thighs, and the way his stomach muscles clenched, and the dip of his belly button. Eames pushed Arthur over, then rolled so Arthur was on top and he had better access to skin. He ran his hand from the nape of Arthur's neck all along his spine, delighting in the shudder that it elicited, until he reached his tailbone.

"Oh, that's too bad," Eames murmured against Arthur's lips.

"What?" Arthur sounded breathless and dazed.

Eames flashed a wolfish grin. "You don't have a tail."

Arthur pulled back, sitting on Eames' thighs. "A what?"

"All this time, I was just _sure_ you were part cat," Eames teased, but Arthur was getting that frowny line between his eyebrows that normally Eames loved, but right now meant Arthur was thinking far too much seeing as neither of them had pants on. "Nevermind. I was just kidding."

"No, Eames," Arthur said, his hands pushed into Eames' chest to hold him still. "I mean, I'm open to a lot of things, I just like to talk about them first, so—"

"Darling!" Eames marvelled at him in an open-mouthed smile. "You may have just made my whole life with that sentence, but that's not what I meant. This—," he said, sitting up and wrapping both arms around Arthur as tight as they would go, "—this right here is more than I could have hoped for. I'm perfectly happy, love."

"Hmmph," Arthur relented and Eames dropped a tiny kiss on his enchantingly expressive eyebrows and the crease between them. "Well, I _don't_ have a tail," he said as he captured Eames' jaw between his hands and kissed him, "but I think I might know where I can get one of those cat ear headbands."

"Me-yow."


End file.
